by Frank Martin
The beads of sweat building on Scott’s furrowed forehead started popping as they dripped down his tightened, angry face. “Just shut up and do it!”
“I thought you didn’t want to blow it up, though?”
Scott let out a frustrated puff of air and bared his teeth before screaming out in a fit of rage. "Give it to me now!"
In one sudden, wrathful moment, Brooks threw his arms back to dive forward at Peter, tossing the gun behind him in the process. Scott's attack caught Peter by surprise as he tackled into him, bringing both men down to the ground. Although the snow certainly cushioned the fall, Peter still hit the ground with enough unexpected force to cause the detonator to fly out of his hand.
Now on top of his foe, Scott frantically searched through the pockets of Peter's jacket. His face had been taken over by a desperate ferocity, but the man still clung to the last bits of his sanity as he continued his search for the cure. "Where is it? Where is it?!"
Still recovering from the blow, Peter grunted off the last remnants of pain in his back just in time to see Scott find the syringe tucked deep into his breast pocket. In one fluid motion, Brooks used the last of his conscious thoughts to flick off the safety cap and jab the needle straight into the top of his neck.
The sight was a little unnerving for Peter to watch, but he understood that in Scott's desperation, it was the most convenient patch of skin available to him. Whether or not the substance would work, though, was another issue entirely. Did he inject it in the right location? Or the more pressing question: did he use it in time?
For a moment, Scott's breathing slowed down as he looked up with an easy sense of calm. Peter couldn't see Brooks's face, but the man's body relaxed back, the stress and tension shedding off his shoulders. He continued to stare up, though, refusing to look down at the victim he continued to pin into the snow. And for his part, Peter was reluctant to grab his attacker's attention, afraid at what kind of monster, human or otherwise, he would be talking to.
The village manager just cautiously waited for what seemed like an eternity before finally calling out in a soft, gentle voice. "Scott...?"
Brooks didn't respond, though. He just remained still in the same calm position, either ignoring or not hearing his name. Peter waited for another moment before trying again.
But when he opened his mouth to speak, Scott unleashed a sudden animalistic roar as his arms shot down towards his target's throat. Reacting on pure instinct, Peter pushed the flashlight up with both hands against Scott's chest to keep the savage attack at arm's length.
Peter wanted to stop for a moment and think about what to do. About how to handle the situation. But he wasn't able. All he could do was stay strong as Scott continued to press down on top of him, gnashing his teeth and swiping his hands like deadly claws in front of his prey’s face.
Adrenaline poured through Peter's veins, forcing his body into action. He pulled his legs up to his chest, quickly sliding his knees under the assault before thrusting his feet in a hard push against Scott's body.
The bloodthirsty fiend fell backwards, but no sooner did he hit the snow had the crazy creature already sprung up ready to attack again. Sensing another onslaught, Peter quickly rolled to his feet just in time to see Scott charging at him full speed. With the flashlight still in hand, Peter took a fighting stance and readied himself.
Then, at the last possible second, Peter stepped to the side and swung his flashlight around, connecting it to the side of the maniac's head. Scott's momentum took him flying past Peter and into the mine, but his flailing arms still managed to scratch at Peter's face as it just barely dodged out of the way. The attack spun Peter around, knocking him to his knees, where he then looked down to see droplets of blood falling into the snow. A slow wave of pain rushed through his face, and he dropped the flashlight to run his hand across the freshly torn skin on his cheek.
Inside the mine, Scott stumbled over from the blow to his head. But it only took a moment for him to recover by letting out a ravenous roar that echoed out of the mine. He rolled back over and began clawing his way to his feet in another dead charge ahead.
The beast-like shrill brought Peter back to the battle, and he peeked over his shoulder into the mine to see Brooks clamoring towards him like a crazed animal. Another spike of adrenaline flooded his limbs as Peter scrambled, too, climbing through the snow on his hands and knees.
He could feel Scott on his trail, the maddened predator ready to pounce on him at any second. And in a last desperate lunge, Peter reached out for the detonator lying peacefully in the snow. He snuck his hand under the device and without a second thought pressed down on the trigger.
At first, he heard a series of loud booms as the charges popped behind him. Peter then spun around on his back to see Scott's ferocious face diving head first at him just as the blast dropped a large boulder on top of his flying body. The explosion continued to shake the mountainside, bringing down more rocks and rubble to clog up the mine's entrance. But once the dust all cleared, Peter could still see Scott's hand protruding out from the middle of the debris.
A sudden panic caused him to drop the detonator and scramble over to the gun next to him that Scott had tossed into the snow. Once he picked it up, Peter pointed it with both hands at the collapsed cave entrance and fearfully zoomed in on the lifeless hand lying still amidst the rock. He then waited in that position for a solid minute before finally breathing easy while dropping his hands into his lap.
The sigh of relief was accompanied by Peter slowly standing and walking over to the settlement's edge. On his way, he stopped by the empty case of explosives and other supplies he and Beth removed from the truck. Peter then pulled out the group's handheld radio from within the pile and brought it, along with the gun still glued to his hand, over to the cliff.
Although it didn't exactly go as smoothly as he hoped, Peter's part of the plan was complete. With that in mind, he felt content enough to allow his exhausted body the luxury of dropping down into the snow. He could feel the blood from the wound on his face still trickling down his chin, but was just too tired to do anything about it. For now, all he wanted to do was check in and make sure the others were all right.
Looking out over the valley, Peter brought the radio to his face and spoke as if he was talking directly to the town and village below. “This is Peter. The mine's been sealed. How's everyone else coming along?”
Peter took the radio away from his face and waited for a response. When one didn’t come after several seconds, he tried again. “Did anybody get that? I said the mine is sealed.”
Again, no voice responded to his call, and Peter’s desperate words started to show a sign of hopeless dread. “Hello? Please…somebody say something.”
The radio's continued silence filled the village manager with anxious worry. Why weren't they answering? What could it mean? He could feel his breath starting to get worked up as a number of many frightful scenarios rushed through his head.
But then Peter realized that the day's events had trained him to fear for the worst. He could've not been able to reach the other groups for any number of reasons. His radio could've been broken. Their radios could've been broken. Their radios could've been off. Or maybe the others were just too busy to answer. They were in the middle of preventing the zombie Apocalypse, after all.
After confronting his own fabricated anxiety, Peter breathed another sigh to calm his nerves and relax his mind. Everything was probably fine. And Chris was surely on his way to give Ryan the cure, if he hadn't already. Just because it didn't work on Scott, didn't mean it wouldn't for Ryan. There could've been a hundred medical reasons why it couldn't save the devious man. But it would for his son. It had to. After today, the Haydens deserved a happy ending. And in just a few short hours the town would be evacuated, the zombies would be destroyed, and he and Ryan would be united once again.
Peter's thought was a reassuring one that filled him with a calm, overdue happiness. It was then immediately fo
llowed by a gigantic explosion that ripped through the center of Mountain Village.
The loud boom shook the whole valley as a large ball of fire erupted on the mountainside. A chain reaction of flames tore its way around the village square, destroying everything in its path. And it wasn't long before the entire community lifted from its firm home and began tumbling towards the valley floor.
Up above it, Peter could easily spot every ski trail release a torrential wave of snow and debris that only added to the already enormous tidal wave rushing down the mountain. A deathly glow of moonlight shone upon the white cascade, and it appeared in slow motion as it came barreling into the town below. The first crest of snow hit the base of the resort hard and began flooding its way outward as it covered everything in its path. About half-way through the streets, it almost appeared as if the deluge was actually slowing down. But the final barrage of snow bringing up the rear pushed the landslide forward until all of Telluride was lost in its wake.
The whole flood only lasted a few seconds, and by the time it settled throughout the canyon there was not a trace of the town buried beneath it. All that remained was a heavy plume of fluffy powder that floated up throughout the valley. The white cloud continued to climb, even reaching as high as the Tomboy settlement, where Peter still sat speechless on the cliff edge after watching the entire wintery destruction.
His mind immediately turned into a blank sheet of total despair and disbelief, unable to form a single comprehensive thought. He had trouble processing the sight in front of him. In just a few short moments, he went from finally feeling a ray of hope to watching everything he’d built over the course of his adult life crumble into nothingness. It was a scene of total physical and emotional devastation, and one which Peter could only respond to with the release of a single, involuntary whimper.
That was it. The end. Blowing the village was the final part of the plan, and now that it was done there was nothing left. For a brief moment, Peter contemplated how it could've happened so soon. But as with the outbreak, the why didn't matter. All that mattered was that no one could've escaped that. There wasn't enough time. Not in Mountain Village or Telluride below. And certainly not for Ryan.
Peter's son was dead. There was no denying it now. Sure, he was probably gone hours earlier. But Peter had clung to the hope that there was some sliver of a chance that Ryan could be saved. Not anymore.
So what was left? Peter searched through the depths of his shattered mind looking for salvation. Something, anything that could lift him up from the tumultuous pit of depression he was falling into. But the only release the distraught man could grasp was the cold metal of the pistol still clutched in his hand.
Peter lifted the gun to examine it, barely even contemplating the grave finality of his decision. He saw no other way out, and as the last human being left alive in the valley, he frankly didn't care. Without another second to delay, Peter brought the gun's barrel up to the side of his head while looking out over the vast desolation of the snowy ruins before him. But such destruction was not the last thing he wanted to see. So he closed his eyes and pictured the smiling faces of his wife and child one last time before smiling himself and squeezing the trigger.
Epilogue
During the initial hours of the epidemic, it didn't take long for Georgia's broadcast to generate the largest internet audience in TORO's history.
While she was on the air, Miss Croft was the only real source of news coming out of the canyon. All attempts from national network stations to get in contact with someone from Telluride failed miserably. The anchors futilely pleaded for anyone inside experiencing the horror to call them, but the people inside the town weren’t even watching the news. They were too busy trying to survive. Besides unconfirmed cell phone videos, the only guests the producers could get on the air were people who recollected second-hand accounts of the chaos. A family member or friend who received a short, desperate phone call during their loved one's final moments.
Likewise, no outside callers were getting through to Georgia's show either. Sure, people tried. But the lines were being dominated by local traffic, which the DJ felt a responsibility to answer. Maybe if she had an assistant, Georgia could've managed the outside calls better and gotten a reporter on the air. But Malcolm was the only one around to help, and her boss was busy dealing with...other issues. Besides, Georgia's top priority in the moment was chronicling the horrifying tales of those around her. Sickening stories that went out over the internet for the whole world to hear.
Men and women around the country huddled over in office cubicles to hear the faint volume of their computer screens turned down to just above a whisper. Across the Atlantic, European commuters on their way back from work turned on their radios to the breaking news terrorizing a small town in the Colorado Rockies. And in Asia, families came home hoping to have dinner only to hear about gruesome accounts of murder and mayhem.
The planet was shocked, fearful, and surprisingly intrigued by the terror in Telluride. It was a disaster without a cause. A tragedy without explanation. And no matter who you were or where you were listening from, there was only one thing you wanted: more.
Especially after Georgia's broadcast suddenly went dark.
Why did the radio go silent? Was she attacked? Or did she run away? Perhaps she was never in danger to begin with. Maybe this was all some sick, elaborate hoax. A marketing stunt for an upcoming movie. Then why were other news station around the globe reporting it as true? Surely no one would ever let a cruel joke get so far. Especially not the governor, who would only give a vague comment through his press secretary that he was, “handling the matter cautiously.”
Private humanitarian expeditions out to the valley were already being planned, but they were still at least a day away from getting through the aftermath of the storm. It seemed as if for the time being all anybody could do was speculate as to the how or why any of this was happening.
One thing was for sure, though: the longer Georgia was off the air, the more people tuned in hoping she would come back on. As the day progressed, word spread through news or gossip about the havoc being raged in a small mountain town. Speculation and mystery fueled a media firestorm of blogs and conspiracy websites until it drove anyone with an interest to sign in.
One by one, potential listeners logged on hoping to hear the young DJ's spunky voice return. But it never did. And ultimately, it was their very drive and thirst for more information that kept her off the air. Unbeknownst to Georgia, it was that very swarm of internet traffic which jammed the station's already fragile systems, preventing her from broadcasting the call to evacuate. Maybe, just maybe, if the damaged servers were still intact she might've gotten a signal out. But her warning wasn't meant to be.
And so the millions upon millions of concerned, eager, frightened, and (unfortunately), excited listeners would never get to hear the fate of the small mountain town and the zombies who destroyed it. Including the caravan of soldiers and guardsmen already on their way to the ruined civilization formerly known as Telluride, Colorado.
Read on for a free sample of The Nightmare Man: A Zombie Novel
THE NIGHTMARE MAN
The frozen wasteland extended for hundreds of miles in all directions, over hills and through a surprisingly high population of trees. Snow clung to the leaves and branches, dripping like foam, the ground completely covered in thick ice. The sun was astonishing, the sky clear in places and curdled with clouds in others, an almost aching and peaceful beauty. A photo of Siberia would have looked romantic, adventurous. The reality was dangerous. The harsh cold tried to destroy the alien structure in this place; no thing was welcome here.
The building was a prison.
The prison itself was built for purpose, not beauty, and it still had Communist symbols and even a statue of Stalin before it, even though Communism had been gone from Mother Russia for seventy years. The windows were all barred, but that was not unusual in Russia. A cold wind blew around the building,
worsening the minus thirty-eight-degree temperature. It even hurt to breathe.
A line of prisoners marched out to a point a hundred metres away from the main building. They were closely followed by the guards, who were strong men in clean uniforms and the Russian sharpka, or trapper hats, their boots crushing the snow beneath them. Their eyes held no empathy and were as cold and relentless as the bitter horizon, their gaze unflinching beneath the falling snow. The guards did not even look directly at their prisoners. Behind them came two more men; one was The Colonel, who was in charge of the prison. He was a large man, sometimes called Medved, or The Bear. He was the only person grinning. Beside him was a much smaller man called Anton.
“You see, my friend,” The Bear gestured to the wilderness stretching off in every direction. “No need for walls.”
Anton carefully studied the white wastelands, although he had seen them many times before, holding his hands together. He had two pairs of gloves on. Anton looked to The Bear.
“No prisoner can survive out there,” The Colonel continued. “He can escape, but that’s not the point. Getting out of my prison is the easy part. No, his real problems start when he gets away from my prison. There’s literally nothing out there. A distance so vast that it would take months to cross it. And there are wild animals out there.”
“Wild animals?”
“Bears, for one thing. And tigers. Not to mention the various hunters and trappers out there. Now, you would think they would help an escaped prisoner, right? A man who is the ‘underdog,’ a victim of a cruelly oppressive system, probably even a fellow Christian, a man who for all intents and purposes is just like them, just less fortunate. Am I right? Of course I am. But they have learned not to help any prisoner. They too have been educated.”
Anton didn’t look at The Colonel. Instead, he paid attention to the front of the column which had stopped moving. Two guards seized the lead man and dragged him away from the group. His hands were bound with a zip-tie and he fell to his knees when the guards released him. Anton could see that this man had a blanket around him.
